Morty was a thin, glassy-eyed boy; he became a gaunt, apathetic teenager. A placid demeanor, and large ears, made him an ideal confidant. People took turns soaking him in gossip, which he forgot immediately. Devoid of imagination, he never left the swamp, shone in no domain and contented in menial, abstruse tasks, assisting his cousins in their erratic endeavors without complaining. A dull, vegetative life, like a cactus you left in a corner. And yet, passive as he was, he kept growing in size and strength: one day they had to say Uncle.
He needed a weapon his size; nothing was big enough, it had to be custom-made. Quite unexpectedly, Morty knew exactly what he wanted. He could even draw blueprints. All those years listening to others had apparently given him strong feelings about humanity and the fate it deserves. When he laid hands on his “Reaper”, all could see he had finally found his place in this world.
The children call him “Uncle Mort”; they say it suits him well.